Resident Evil: Beyond America
by Mirosov
Summary: Raccoon City is only a precursor to the pandemic that's about to befall Humanity. Chapter 1 is up!|Chapter 2 coming sooner than you expect!


Resident evil: beyond America….

By Kieran H.

(Mirosov)

Chapter 1`: searching blindly 

Michael Strand is an Innocent caught in the chaos that is the T virus outbreak…can he escape?

Water seeped into Michaels boots, adding another torment to his weary feet as he struggled to keep running down the street. The soles of his feet ached, a bolt of pain soared through his legs as he made another agonising step forward. Tired, exhausted and nauseous Michael Strand stopped for a moment to catch his breath. His lungs felt on fire, no longer able to cope under the strain they were forced to endure. 

The Street was lit by the Red Neon glow of a big sign. It read, "Merry Christmas!" The last three letters of Christmas flickered on and off, sparking occasionally in the driving cold rain. The Street was deserted, bar one or two parked cars. The buildings stood silent, peaceful but looked malevolent in the red light. Only a closer look would reveal the smashed windows, bullet holes that dotted the Concrete walls, tearing up the feeble plasterwork. It all looked normal, but nothing could be further from the truth.

Staring up in the night sky, frowning tightly in bitterly cold Rain, Michael saw the Neon sign. It stood precariously high on top of an old Georgian style building. It was Christmas, that Christian tradition of celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. Standing there, cold, frightened, tired, hungry and desperate Michael could find no consolation that the birth of Christ was just days away. 

He collapsed suddenly, no longer able to hold himself up. Gripping his heavy Assault Rifle, the M-4 Carbine, he lay on his back, staring into the cloudy night sky. He wished it all could end. End now. Turning his face to the asphalt, he prepared to fall asleep. It had been so long since he had slept, or eating, or washed, or felt safe. But something caught his eye. On the far end of the street, something was moving. Focusing as hard as he could, it had a humanoid shape, walking toward where Michael lay. His hand searched with slowness, brought on by the sheer freezing rain for the safety switch on his Rifle. He clicked it off, never taking his gaze off the thing on the other end of the street. 

It stumbled once, then again. It most likely was, but Michael didn't want to make that mistake again. Sitting up right, he looked around him, but saw nothing to fear but the Shadows thrown off by the flickering red light. Maybe whoever or whatever it was hadn't seen him. Its arms lay down by its side, the head titled slightly irregular to the left as it slowly and clumsily marched on. "For Fuck sake…. leave me alone" he cried as he stood up, not all the way, but hunched, to avoid being seen. As he did a shard of glass on the street tore the palm of his hand open. He fell to the ground without the support of the arm, Rich red blood oozing out of the deep cut. He bit his lip, crying out would give him away, and he'd know very quickly whiter it was just him and that lone, solitary figure in the distance on this street, of if something else was here….

It wasn't worth it. Michael brushed away the excess blood, and gathering himself up turned around and moved on. Slowly at first, and with great difficulty he began to run. Flem and mucus blocked the vital airways of his lungs. The rush of footsteps, something knocked over, falling to the ground with a great clatter, the moaning wasn't on the forefront of his mind. It should have been. 

"Fuck!" Rushing out of alleyways Michael hadn't noticed, rising from out of nowhere, "they" were all around him. He grabbed the M-4 strapped around his shoulder and searched frantically for the first, the closest one. He'd wasted too much time, now he might just pay for it with his life. The first one ran out at him from behind a car, arms out stretched eager to tear the flesh from his bones. He tried not to look it in the eyes. Those dull eyes devoid of intelligence. He raised the Rifle and pull the trigger down, everything was happening to someone else, like Michael were watching himself on TV. The first bullet hadn't left the magazine when hands reached around his neck from behind. He threw the butt of the rifle back, and the hands let go, scratching his neck as they went. He ran forward instinctively, jostling another as it groped for him. Free from the group, he looked back. Seven of them, men mostly, tattered blood stained clothes, jokes of humanity, unfortunate souls. He took aim again, and fired indiscriminately into the pack. He tried his best to keep the trigger down and aimed at them, but he wasn't strong enough and the M-4 rattled out of his control. The closest two fell back on the ground and weren't moving. One of them was a young girl; her long red hair spread out on the road was matted with blood coming out of her head. 

He stopped firing and looked for the other five, but couldn't concentrate with the ringing in his ears. Adrenalin rushed in his system. He didn't see them, but that didn't matter, he was getting out of here now. He fumbled in one of his pockets for something. He pulled it out, reading the bold yellow letters in the rain. "Fragmentation Grenade".  He pulled the pin and threw it to the ground. Five. He bolted down the street as fast as he could. Four. Michael stumbled and fell, twisting his ankle and hitting the ground hard, loosening one of his front teeth. Three. "Argh!" He rose again, hobbling forward. Two. Something was coming behind him, running also. He felt a hand grab his arm, spinning him around. He saw him now, his skin a pale yellow, dried blood around his mouth and all over his leather jacket. Rain trickled down his face, but Michael looked away. One.

The orange blast flung both of them back; the zombie was hurled further than he, into the back window of a parked Van. Disorientated, Michael crawled for cover beside a street bin. He smelled singed hair, not necessarily his own. The Grenade had taken a car parked close by with it; it burned tremendously sending a high column of thick black smoke into the night's sky. Debris from the explosion began to rain down, and Michael covered his head with his arm to shield himself against it. His ankle wasn't twisted after all, but hurt when he moved it in a circular motion. He swept off the glass and ash from his jacket, and stood up, taking out the wasted magazine from the M-4 and jamming a new one in place. It was time to move on, pretty soon everything in town would be partying right here…

"God I'm tired" Michael thought as he jogged down the street. "Farrow Street" read the metal sign attached to the side of a Furniture store. He was somewhere north of the city centre, how far he could only guess. He'd been running for about four hours, through barricades, roadblocks and past hundreds of "them". At first he stuck to the rooftops, but when he came to a street it was too far to jump he had to go down to the ground level and make his way across into another building, hoping it wasn't infested. They often were, and it was just too hard to clear a path in such small confined areas, therefore he took the open streets, where he could easily outrun the old ones, but the newly infected were healthier, and could catch him if they saw him. 

Michael's heart pounded violently inside him as he mustered whatever strength he had left into the jog. The skirmish had taken a lot out of him, more than he had to give. While still running, he opened a chest pocket and withdrew a small map from it. He searched for Farrow Street without luck. The blood from the gash on his hand seeped into the paper turning it red, and he put it away quickly. The rain became harder, intertwined with sleet. "I can't go on like this," he said. Picking the least dishevelled, burnt out and looted building he could find, Michael decided enough was enough. It was a Printing press, "OJT Printers". There were no lights on inside, and the window hadn't been broken yet till Michael put the Rifle butt through it. The glass shattered backward into the room. Looking around for any other zombies on the street, Michael pulled a small battery powered flashlight from his trouser pocket and peered inside. Everything looked normal, no sign of any looting or struggle. Knocking away the glass still clinging to the bottom of the windowpane, Michael climbed in. It was ominously quiet. It was the reception room, where orders and deliveries where sorted. The door seemed secure, but was useless now that he'd broken the window. He'd have to move further inside and up to the second floor of the four-storey building. 

Moving stealthily toward the wooden reception desk in the right hand corner, Michael checked out the room. It had a set of chairs next to the door, a sick looking plant, which was shedding its leaves and in dire need of water and table littered with TV magazines. Christmas decorations covered the reception desk.  To the left was a big wooden door, which would be impregnable once he propped it up with something else. The reception desk amounted to a new Personal Computer, two phones and lots of order sheets. It wasn't very tidy either. Jumping over the desk, Michael lifted the phone receiver and held it to his head. There was no signal. "What's new? "He murmured as he checked out the PC. It wouldn't boot up. 

Something stirred outside on the street, something big. Michael could hear its feet thud to the ground with each step. He ducked down behind the desk, hoping it would go away…


End file.
